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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695928">playing with the air</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/red__moon/pseuds/red__moon'>red__moon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>brief inquiries. [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The 1975 (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blow Jobs, Drugs, F/M, Festivals, Mushrooms, Oneshot, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Reading and Leeds Festivals, Semi-Public Sex</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:47:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,283</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25695928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/red__moon/pseuds/red__moon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Erin has just come offstage from playing a set at Reading, but her band is pissing her off. Back at the campsite, she bumps into Matty, who she quickly realises is more than just a pretty face, and when they wander off and take psychedelics, the entertainment gets even better.</p>
<p>(Not accurate to any real life timeline, roughly 2016)</p>
<p>  <i> A wiser, more sensible version of myself pipes up in my inner monologue, warning me that he is probably an utter scoundrel, just another leery musician. But her reckless, slightly drunk counterpart beats that voice down, encouraging me to take every opportunity to enjoy what is left of this rather sorry festival experience. After all, he is an extremely pretty man, endowed with the precious ability to hold a lucid conversation, so it might be a waste if I don’t make the most of his company. </i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Matthew Healy/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>brief inquiries. [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1925500</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>playing with the air</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>‘Pass?’ The security guard asks, clearly bored. I know I must have a murderous expression on my face, but try to tone it down as I dangle the lanyard from my thumb. He waves me through, and I feel like a child about to have a tantrum as my steps hit the ground heavily; it has rained since I left the campsite this morning, and flecks of mud hit my calves.</p>
<p>It’s embarrassing, more than anything. Kieran’s words are still stinging - <em> ‘You don’t need to showboat like that, you know. Don’t act like you’re in fucking Queen, for god’s sake.’ </em> I replay our set in my head, looking out at all the blank, vaguely uninterested faces, watching a few people trickle out the back of the tent. And then glancing at my bandmates, striking up what was <em> supposed </em>to be our biggest single, and Dominic attacking his drums with admirable effort whilst the other three droned into their mics and glared outwardly under their fringes. </p>
<p>I hate it, right there and then - I hate their pretentious apathy. A veneer of cool detachment might work for Lou Reed, but Kieran is no Lou Reed, just an indie boy with cheap sunglasses and a brand deal he keeps hidden for fear of being labelled a ‘sell-out’. For god’s sake, I grit my teeth, if you were going to be dressed in head to toe Saint Laurent, money no object, you could at least pick out something more striking than the blue jeans and white trainers.</p>
<p>So, yes, to put it vulgarly: I had somewhat lost my shit onstage. Afterwards our manager, Sophie, questions if I’m on speed. No, I tell her, but someone needed to inject some energy into the proceedings, and I was fairly confident I could play bass whilst flirting with a bit of exhibitionism at the same time. But that doesn’t stop Kieran from taking me aside for a scathing admonishment.</p>
<p>‘Fucking prick,’ I mutter under my breath, taking a flying kick to a beer can that lies on the path to the campsite. It flips and dumps the dregs of Amstel directly over the toe of my suede boots, sorely punctuating my frustration. ‘Fuck my <em> life </em>…’</p>
<p>I pick the can up and lob it in the other direction, barely looking where I’m throwing it. All I see is a small sea of tents, admittedly neater and less litter-strewn than the ones in general admission; most of the press and guests that this site is reserved for are frolicking in the VIP bar, now that the sky is turning a warm, mellow hue and the night’s buzz is in the air.</p>
<p>‘Yeah, it’s like that sometimes,’ someone says drily, and it seems to be directed at me - a young, male voice that drifts from behind the tents. I jump and pause mid-stride, my irrational anger draining out of me in half a second as I spin around to find the source. A figure picks their way towards me from the shade of a tour bus, the kind with a canopy that opens out to accommodate a small table and deckchairs. The figure comes into the afternoon sunlight, and I realise that I recognise him; I had seen him play the same tent as us the previous evening, to a frothing crowd that made Kieran combust with envy. ‘What’s up?’</p>
<p>‘Band drama,’ I huff, flipping my sunglasses up. I shade my eyes with my hand to stop myself from squinting, and take the opportunity to appraise him up close. Neat, sculpted features, skinny limbs clad in neatly tailored black trousers, just an inch or two taller than me, plus a head of dark, unruly curls that cascade over his brow. He pushes them out of the way with the sunglasses he flips up to make eye contact.</p>
<p>‘Can’t relate,’ he grins facetiously. I feel a prickle of annoyance, but can tell he is attempting to lighten my dark mood. ‘Something a drink might fix?’</p>
<p>‘Alright,’ I accept grudgingly, reassured by his warm, easy manner. I have had quite enough of pretty-boy musicians over the last few years, but this one doesn’t sway as he speaks, nor does he drawl with fake apathy. I start to make my way around the tent pegs and guylines that separate us. ‘What do you have?’</p>
<p>‘Ooh, let me think… Fosters, vodka, whisky, tequila, red wine. Also champagne,’ the curly boy announces, looking quite pleased with himself, ‘which is such a trope, but it <em> is </em>Reading. Can’t be blamed for celebrating a little.’</p>
<p>‘Not when you’ve packed out the biggest tent in the field,’ I quip, enjoying his fleeting look of surprise.</p>
<p>‘You saw?’</p>
<p>‘Of course. That’s half my trouble, my frontman is lamenting our comparatively lacklustre reception and blaming me for trying to spice things up.’ He turns and leads me towards his tour bus when I’m within a metre, but throws a sympathetic glance in my direction.</p>
<p>‘Sounds like he’s the one who should be embarrassed. Why wouldn’t you want to entertain people, gas them up a bit? It’s the best part of the job.’</p>
<p>Under the canopy that leans against the enormous bus, there’s an ice-filled bucket and fold-out table with plastic cups scattered across the surface, a pool of what looks like beer narrowly missing a portable speaker that plays the Flaming Lips at a weak volume.</p>
<p>‘Where’s the rest of your band?’</p>
<p>‘Running around the field in search of hot dogs. I was just on my way to locate them, but…’ He shrugged, retrieving a champagne bottle from the half-melted ice bucket and shaking two cups free of the stack on the table. With a sharp pop, he artfully uncorks the bottle, and pours a generous amount into each cup. ‘Bottoms up!’</p>
<p>The champagne is delightfully cool, and makes me realise just how uncomfortably hot it’s getting under the afternoon sun. ‘Shit like this makes me remember that I really am a festival person. You forget that, I guess, in between the bickering, the stress of loading in, fretting over monitors.’</p>
<p>‘This is the greener grass, don’t you know?’ He raises his eyebrows playfully. ‘Remember all the years of general admission as a teenager, gazing wistfully at the chosen ones standing side of stage? You’ve crossed over now.’</p>
<p>‘Could have fooled me,’ I mutter, taking another swig of alcohol before shaking my head, breaking out of my recalcitrant mood. ‘I sound like such an ungrateful twat, I know. Must be making an appalling impression.’</p>
<p>‘Not at all… sorry, what’s your name? I'm Matty.’</p>
<p>‘Erin. Nice to meet you, Matty.'</p>
<p>'Cheers to that.’ He lightly taps his cup against mine, and nods in acknowledgement, making his mad corkscrew curls bounce. ‘Want to go for a wander?’</p>
<p>A wiser, more sensible version of myself pipes up in my inner monologue, warning me that he is probably an utter scoundrel, just another leery musician. But her reckless, slightly drunk counterpart beats that voice down, encouraging me to take every opportunity to enjoy what is left of this rather sorry festival experience. After all, he is an extremely pretty man, endowed with the precious ability to hold a lucid conversation, so it might be a waste if I <em> don’t </em>make the most of his company.</p>
<p>We walk aimlessly for what feels like hours, when in fact it is barely thirty minutes, as we swap and compare stories of tour madness, working out our mutual friends, animatedly pulling apart our experiences. I forget, for a moment, that I’ve just played a lacklustre set and will probably play another at Leeds tomorrow. As it turns out, Matty is far from leery; in fact, he’s a very good listener and an even better talker, playful as a teenager one moment and as wise and serious as an old savant the next. He is curious, too - curious about our surroundings, the ideas I bring up, and particularly curious about me. </p>
<p>He has a way of looking that makes me want to freeze time, savour being spotlit by his gaze and hold his attention. I can feel myself showing off, minute by minute - trying to be a bit funnier, a bit smarter with each comment, just so his brow will raise in interest and his eyes will crease with amusement. When he asks if I find relationships hard on tour, I feel the blood rush to my cheeks. </p>
<p>‘I’ve never been with anyone whilst on tour, actually,’ I admit, tugging at a clump of grass where we’ve come to rest, under the treeline. ‘The last time, I actually broke it off before I left. Figured it would be easier than navigating a fall-out over the phone, on a bus somewhere on the M1.’</p>
<p>‘Personally I find the M6 is the <em> perfect </em>amount of depressing for an uncomfortable conversation,’ Matty snickers. ‘But in all seriousness, sometimes a partner doesn’t understand how knackering it is at one in the morning when you don’t have the energy for phone sex or whatever.’</p>
<p>‘Tour buses are neither sexy nor private,’ I giggle. ‘What about you?’</p>
<p>‘Tried it. Didn’t work,’ he shrugs, speaking matter-of-factly. ‘Broke up with my ex at the end of last year. But we’re on good terms, she comes to hometown shows, you know how it is.’</p>
<p>We sit contentedly in the long grass, as the thunder of bass emanates from across the fields, and the sky becomes murky. When Matty comments that he is hungry, I pat down the pockets of my trousers, searching for the small packet I had shoved in them as an afterthought. ‘Well if you’ve got an empty stomach… it might work to our advantage,' I flick the bag between my fingers and hand it to him.</p>
<p>‘Is this what I think it is?’ His eyes glitter as he unwraps the brownie inside.</p>
<p>‘Yes and no. This is mushrooms, I picked it up before I left London. For extra fun.’ I smile wryly.</p>
<p>‘We split it, yeah?’</p>
<p>I nod, breaking it in two and handing him the slightly bigger half. ‘I know it’s not exactly a greasy festival hot dog, but it’s more interesting.’</p>
<p>‘Better than smoking cheap weed too.’</p>
<p>We tap our pieces together and eat them, wondering how long the mushrooms will take to have an effect.</p>
<p>‘There’s something about edible drugs that’s much more pleasing to the senses, isn’t there? I vastly prefer it to smoking.’</p>
<p>‘So… you mean acid too?’</p>
<p>‘No, I know you’re meant to find a comfortable place to trip but I just worry about being really out of my mind and walking off somewhere,' I laugh.</p>
<p>‘Probably for the best, especially at a festival. They’re bloody terrifying places at the best of times.’ Matty pulls off the black sweater he’s been wearing, bundling it up and putting it under his head as he lies back. ‘It is nice not to have any more obligations now though. Set’s done, tour is over… I can go home. Fuck knows what I’m going to do with myself.’</p>
<p>Feeling brave, I reach out to pluck the sunglasses from his head, and put them on, smiling giddily at him. ‘They suit you,’ he smirks.</p>
<p>It takes another hour, but we are both suddenly very high. I am busy trying to work out how fast the clouds are moving across the sky when I realise Matty is looking at me with a slightly dopey expression, and it takes him a few seconds to glance away when I look back, though he doesn’t seem self-conscious. I wonder if he finds me as attractive as I find him. I try to gather my wandering focus to pay attention to any possible signs.</p>
<p>It’s the sort of high that makes us very familiar suddenly, and increasingly tactile. He rests his head on my knee and then in my lap, whilst I comb through his hair with my fingers, unravelling each dark curl from the rest and laughing at his expression when I touch a sensitive spot at the nape of his neck.</p>
<p>‘I’ve never paid for a head massage yet,’ he says dreamily.</p>
<p>‘Why does your hair seem to go on forever…’ I stare down at my lap, trying to work out if my hands really do have a purple haze around them. The grass around us is very, very green, and Matty’s eyes seem so very dark, his lips very pink and delicate. A hand pulls at my own hair as it dangles over him, and I realise he is reaching up to me.</p>
<p>‘You look like you have a halo.’</p>
<p>For some reason, this seems hilarious; I throw my head back and laugh until my stomach hurts. Matty sits up and smiles at me in wonder, one hand encircling my wrist and his thumb running across my forearm.</p>
<p>I lean in giddily, and when I bring my lips to his beautifully arched ones, it seems utterly natural; everything is slow, our confidence with each other grows. When the hand he uses to steady himself brushes against my knee, it finds its way across to my thigh as his tongue plays lazily with mine, touching me gently as something to be held and admired, rather than a grip of possession.</p>
<p>The thoughts I would normally reserve to myself begin to spill aloud, the drug acting like a truth serum, and I find myself narrating how much I like what is happening. ‘God… your hands feel really nice. And I like your face… so much,’ I ramble, beginning to kiss under his jaw, ‘how does it stay so smooth after two days at a festival?’</p>
<p>‘I guess I’m just lucky,’ he breathes. He encourages me into his lap and I have to place my hands on his shoulders to balance, but instinctively they run down his back, pulling him in towards me. I like holding him in return, feeling how well his height fits with mine. Time seems to run at a different speed as we make out, and I know that’s mostly down to the effects of the shrooms, but this also isn’t my average hook-up.</p>
<p>Matty kisses across my face delicately before pausing to speak. ‘Can I try to make you come?’ He can’t keep a straight face when he says this, and smiles deliriously at the daring of his own words.</p>
<p>‘Yeah, you can,’ I shifted slightly in his lap to bring our crotches closer, slightly amazed at his humility, since he is quite obviously gorgeous and I am already so turned on it feels like there’s a flame between my legs. ‘Can I, as well?’</p>
<p>He tightens his hold on me momentarily and kisses me deeply in response. The flame surges again. ‘Fuck, yes.’</p>
<p>For a moment, I don’t quite know what the next motion will be, but Matty holds me against him as he rolls to the side, until I am laying on my back in the grass. Thankfully it’s dry from the warm weekend and all the dew has long evaporated. He crawls down my body, and for a fleeting moment I silently thank whatever higher power ensured we came to sit down out of sight of any people. I can’t even see tents, the music barely a distant thrum in the ground, and Matty is pushing my shirt up, and that’s his breath hot against my stomach, his warm tongue darting out and then swirling hungrily against the skin. He’s not even near my crotch yet but I can feel myself getting wet. I shiver in anticipation, torn between keeping my gaze on him or closing my eyes to revel in the sensation, but the trip makes my mind up for me, and my head tips back as the clouds seem to move with the same rhythm as Matty’s tongue. They are no longer white, but tinted a pink-orange colour, and either my eyes are playing tricks or the sunset suddenly became much more impressive.</p>
<p>He pushes my skirt up and his lips trail the waistline of my underwear, his soft hair tickling the tops of my thighs. I imagine that even without being under the influence, he would be just as slow and sensual about the whole endeavour. His hand pulls down the elastic and for a few seconds the air feels cool against me, until his warm breath fans across my labia. He circles, dancing around the sensitive skin with the very tip of his tongue, until his lips press, open-mouthed against my clit in much the same way as he made out with me minutes ago, and I feel like I’m melting from the waist down. He moves eagerly, with purpose. I’ve been eaten out before, but generally by guys who didn’t know where to apply the right pressure, despite giving me knowing glances from between my thighs, as if to ask, <em> am I driving you crazy? </em> To which the honest answer would be a resounding <em> no </em>. And then I would invariably finish myself off with my hand. Ironically Matty had been all humility, but was now proceeding to confidently fuck me with his broad tongue, sucking gently at my clit, enough that I know my face is beginning to contort, a precursor to emitting a moan.</p>
<p>‘Jesus…’ My hips rise up to meet his mouth, summoned by an uncontrollable pulse. One of his arms hooks over my thigh and his hand holds my hip tightly. My mind wrangles with the delightful shock of the sexual act, the physical vulnerability married with uncontrolled pleasure. The only sounds are my heavy breathing and his occasional humming; he seems to be getting a good deal of satisfaction too. It’s easy to get lost in the sensation whilst tripping, and I already anticipate how absorbing it will be to go down on him, because of course I will return the favour. How couldn’t I, when he is this beautiful?</p>
<p>And then my mind is blank, all energy and force rushing to my groin, but as I squeeze my eyes shut the purple patterns behind my lids spin faster, like fractals, as the orgasm rolls through me, radiating out, and I pull a clump of grass out of the ground I’ve barely realised I’m grasping at. ‘Fuck… oh my god, you’re good…’ My back arches and I let the convulsions in my hips happen; they intensify and draw out the feeling anyway. Matty clings to me, his eyes swivelling up to watch the pleasure play out through my body and in my face. At last, he detaches himself, planting kisses to my inner thighs and pushing my knees together as he hovers over me again.</p>
<p>We laugh delightedly, and he playfully sits astride me; it feels like a whimsical role reversal as I grip his narrow waist and pull him down for an open-mouthed kiss. I draw my knees up against his back, and we roll over, flattening the tall grass. I am acutely aware now that my ass is in the air, and sit back onto him, gasping slightly at the hardness of his erection through his trousers, jutting out and pressing between my legs. I reach down and trace it, watching his expression darken as I fumble with the zip and gain access to his briefs underneath. He’s <em> very </em>hard, his cock straining at the underwear, and I grind my hips over him, feeling his lips part beneath mine as his breath hitches. His kiss is less forceful, he is distracted and so am I, trying to live up to the pleasure he gave me moments ago.</p>
<p>My thighs squeeze against his torso on either side, cradling him tightly between them, and he looks up at me like I am God, this gentle boy with newly fired eyes. It’s the psychedelics, I tell myself, but no, I think it would be just as good if we were completely sober, except it might have taken us ten times longer to get to the fact.</p>
<p>I briefly consider whether to fuck him there and then in the grass, but I'm not on the pill, and it's hardly like either of us have a condom ready to whip out. Still turned on and feeling the residual heat of orgasm in my abdomen, I shuffle further down his body and pay attention to his creamy smooth skin, unbuttoning the silky red shirt that is half off his shoulder already, revealing a scattering of tattoos across his body. I wonder how many more of those are waiting for me to discover. He combs his fingers through my hair admiringly, the tips hitting the spot at the back of my scalp that sends warm tingles down my back, and I worship his chest with my mouth, which I'm sure is at least a sensual pleasure to him, judging by the way his fingers are moving. </p>
<p>When I hit the trail of hair below his stomach I slow down even more, glancing upwards to see his reaction. His reaction is uninhibited as a result of the trip, an expression of sheer want writ clear across his face. I keep a wicked smile on my own face as I explore the planes of his hips, kissing each narrow edge of bone and catching the elastic of his underwear in my teeth. I peel back the cotton material until it releases his cock, which tips forward and touches his lower stomach, undeniably one of the best I've seen; slightly flushed in comparison to the rest of his body, smooth and thick. A low sigh rumbles in his chest, signalling his arousal. I wonder how long he will last.</p>
<p>I take him in my hand and try to judge what he likes, licking the underside of his erection where it meets his balls and running my tongue right up to the tip, sucking wetly at the head. He swears and squirms beneath me, gathering my hair up away from my face as he stares, helpless. After a minute or so I drop my head and let him fill my mouth, blowing him in earnest now, taking my own pleasure in what is almost a meditative act. I was right, being high makes giving head absorbing; I feel neither subservient nor in charge, only an equilibrium, a balancing of favour, a generosity that benefits me as well. </p>
<p>All I know of this man is his charisma and character, which he so fully inhabits, so self-assured that he projects magnetism. But I feel safe, and I have trusted him enough to wander off into seclusion, take psychedelics and allow him to bring me to climax, consensual but with an unspoken understanding. Sometimes a girl gets lucky.</p>
<p>Meanwhile, Matty gets louder. I love to hear a man's uncontrolled pleasure aloud; it stops me from dissociating. Not that there is any risk of that now. He tastes good, in an instinctive, satisfactory way - there is probably something biological that makes us appeal to each other, even at our most carnal. I increase the pressure in my lips, my tongue aching from flickering across the taut skin. I glance up, raising my eyebrows in a question, and he nods frantically - he's about to come.</p>
<p>I encourage the orgasm from him by using my mouth and hand together, until his come hits my tongue. He twitches underneath me, his hand twisting with the one I'm resting on his hip, and I swallow, still unable to get enough of him. ‘Fuck me, that was good,’ he pants, pink-cheeked. ‘I don’t think I’ve come that hard in a long time.’</p>
<p>As his erection softens slightly, I tuck him back into his underwear and slump forward onto his chest, lightly kissing one of his tattoos on the side of his ribcage. ‘It’s definitely me, not the drugs, I’m sure.’</p>
<p>‘Without a doubt. Come here.’ He sounds dreamy now, and I am glad he is not the sort to push me off and try to get away. We lie there for a while and I rest my head as his diaphragm rises and falls with each breath. I can faintly hear his heartbeat as it gradually slows. We’re both a bit of a mess, clothes askew and hair knotted, basking in a post-orgasmic glow.</p>
<p>My body feels like a leaden weight, but in a pleasant way. We help each other up, slightly ungainly.</p>
<p>‘I don’t normally do that,’ I say finally, as we walk slowly towards the campsite.</p>
<p>‘Why did you break your rule for me?’ Matty asks, eyes twinkling. He lights up a cigarette from a crushed packet in the pocket of his trousers.</p>
<p>I shrug my shoulders. <em> What does he want to hear? ‘You’re irresistible’? </em>‘It was never a rule, so to speak. I’m a bit of a control freak.’</p>
<p>‘It’s nice to lose control sometimes,’ he muses.</p>
<p>‘Yeah,’ I agree.</p>
<p>When we reach his tour bus, I ask if he has any condoms. The music continues to pulse in the distance, the bass thrumming through the ground, but Matty and I are too wrapped up in each other to notice what we are missing; I lose any remnants of control I had, but I think he does too. We fuck until we are totally spent, and then he watches me thumb through the music on his laptop, laughing as I gently mock his taste. I can feel his eyes on me as I sit and listen, in my knickers and his red silk shirt, though they rest on my face, so I turn to meet his gaze, and hold it.</p>
<p>Saying goodbye doesn’t feel like a real departure. I find him the next week, in London, so it seems that although the trip was temporary, his gaze keeps coming back.</p>
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